Hearts Made of Metal
by petitehero
Summary: This is set during the time John and Riley are just becoming friends. Cameron is suffering from the damage to her chip, and from something unknown within. Over time the effects of both wear her down, and time begins to run out.
1. The Birds

I do not own Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles. I do not own any of the show's characters. All I own is me and a few words.

Author's Note: This might start out a little rough because I'm experimenting on how to portray Cameron's point of view.

I sat staring at a wall. A wall with a chimney. The chimney. The same chimney I sit staring at for at least an hour every day. One might think the chimney itself had to be something extraordinary to warrant so much attention. It wasn't. It was just a petty human thing, made of brick and dust and wasted labor. It was forgettable. The birds, however, were not. They make harsh noises that resonate in the vibration receptors of my ears even worse than the grinding of desolate gears. I hate them. I'm not sure why. Hate is not part of my make-up. Neither is lip gloss. That's a lie. I'm not sure if I should tell those. But the point is the birds in the chimney. Every millisecond my hand twitches towards the chimney's opening by a millimeter. Every other millisecond I twitch back. Because I cannot kill the birds. I have the power at my fingertips. I could kill- have killed-twenty men without blinking. It is not the sanctity of life. It is order. Sarah and John tell me I'm supposed to help the 'good guys'. I tell them the birds make noise.

"What are you doing?" I look up to see John watching me from the living room entry. I knew he was coming. My ears caught the change in his breathing as he woke up and the force he exerted in the stairs.

My cold eyes met his own warm set from across the room. "I am monitoring."

"At two a.m.?" John ran a hand through choppy brown hair as he yawned.

I open my mouth to respond, but shut it again as I witness the twitch of his jaw muscles that predates speech.

"No, I know; 'your life is in danger even as this half of the world sleeps, John'. 'There could be evil Skynet ninjas recording every breath you take'." He rolls his eyes at nothing in particular. I do not comprehend the effectiveness of this motion humans tend to do frequently, especially adolescents when regarding their older models. I have asked once before, and I was told it is a display of frustration or anger. I do not understand because this is the action John takes whenever Sarah or myself bring up his safety. The connection between the cause and effect eludes me. Why would he be angered by our efforts to protect his life? Does this mean he is angered by our actions or by our attempts to prevent his death? Does that in turn mean he wishes to die? John does not seem suicidal. I have read a library book about teen depression. My analysis needs reevaluation, but as it stands I believe he is just moody. Back to the point, I am not inclined to trigger his natural man-ego. I am, however, inclined to follow my core mission; to protect him from any and all agents of the machines that feel the need to slash his throat.

I tilt my head to one side. "You should be asleep, John."

John's eyes---which had been scanning the room, a habit he picked up after years on the run---micro-twitched back to mine. "Yeah. I would be. It just…bothers me. Knowing you're down here every night. Doing God knows what. Staring at walls. Unblinking. While the rest of the house just…sleeps."

"Would it comfort you for me to blink at regular intervals while you sleep?" I ask.

The need to comfort others is a bare mechanism within me, something that lacks the catalyst to make it spark and catch flame. That is how I was designed, intended. John made me want to need. He did not want me functioning as the hardware I am. It will be a problem in the near future, I think.

"I appreciate the effort, but I think it's just one of those things that will always kind of creep you out. Like the Easter Bunny." John shifted the weight from his left foot.

"Easter Bunny?" My database tells me the Easter Bunny is a social icon used to bribe human children to desire favorable conduct in the eyes of their parents.

It looked like John was going to elaborate…instead he shakes his head and shrugs. "Never mind."

A second goes by between us like a derelict city wasteland. Like a scene from 2027. John looks uncomfortable. I wonder what that would feel like on my metal frame. The imaginings just serve to make me more aware on every level that I am cold, hard pieces kept together by gears and a resolve to save the boy standing in front of me. I am Machine; a superior species bred by strings of repetitive numbers and the last breath of humanity. I break the silence.

"It is a school night, John. The forces of evil can wait to pounce when your attention span for education is not at risk." I shift my weight, copying John from before. The stance may aid a human's blood flow. It does not aid the electric tension under my stoic surface.

"Fine, fine." John allows, bowing to me in a mock-casual gesture. This strikes me as ironic, in a way that strikes me as suspicious. A full system check is compulsory. "'Night, Cameron."

"Goodnight John Connor." I let my eyes follow John's form out of the living room. I listen to his breathing as he enters his room. Tick tock. Tick tock. He sleeps almost instantly. He can get up almost as spontaneously. This is a skill useful in a future resistance leader like John.

Now that I am alone again, I turn back to the chimney. I refrain from twitching my hand. My source triggers a full scan. My systems are clean as antibacterial-bathed plastic. Except for an out-of-place sound. A thump. Nothing seems affected; I do not worry. I cannot worry. I am Machine. I continue to watch the chimney, for many more hours. Every three seconds, I blink.


	2. Waiting for Ammunition

I still don't own Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles or any of the characters. I still own me and a few words.

Author's Note: Sorry, but this next chapter's a little rough too. I'm trying to balance decent descriptions of actions and such while still allowing Cameron to maintain her inhuman quality. I promise the next few chapters will be more action-y and entertaining.

I watch the sun rise through bleary clouds. It has been six hours since John and I talked. Looking out the window in my room, I decide it's compulsory to dress for the day. My closet is filled halfway---the bounty from shopping with Sarah. I'm not sure how she thinks of me these days. I'm not sure I care. But the two things we can always reach an agreement on are that John is our Most Important and that leather jackets look amazing. Which explains the tight black denim skinny jeans, black studded ankle boots, basic white tee, and short leather jacket I pull out. My clothes serve three purposes; to have coverings, to look like a legit enforcer (like on t.v.), and to look dangerous.

I dress quickly and efficiently, then drift to the mirror. My gaze is steady as I meet my reflection. She has long bronze-streaked hair and flawless skin; full pink lips and warm eyes. She has a face that looks both eternally inviting and fiercely protective. She is a lie. This girl is the one I show the world. It's the girl behind my eyes who's a secret.

I break our eye contact long enough to grab my make-up bag. I don't especially like getting prettied up, but it's necessary for our cover. So I endure the range of products I see girls wearing at school. To survive, I allow their camouflage to blend with mine. One might find irony that they strive for superficial looks while I have them as a punishment for what I am.

Breaking that train of analysis, I apply light pink lipstick to my lips. A thin layer of lip gloss comes next; something iridescent and free. I can not comprehend why human adolescents feel the need to wear it. It tastes like glass and chemicals. The eyeliner comes on thin, in a perfect, straight line. The mascara comes on evenly, without my having to open my mouth in an 'O'. I finish the surface façade without making any errors.

A once-over in the mirror lets me know the Lie looks okay. More than okay, if you go by human standards. I do not. I leave my room and walk down the hall, checking my internal clock. It's 8:00 A.M. I end up pushing open the door at the end of the hall and entering. All I can see is a mop of brown hair resting on a pillow. All I can hear is respiratory action as he sleeps. I stand at the side of the bed and observe.

As if sensing my sight on him, the sleeping figure groans, rolls over, and cracks his eyes open. A second later he bites back a shout, sits up, and pulls a gun from under the spot he had previously snored peacefully over. Its mouth trains on me.

"Son of a b-----Cameron!" he chokes out. His fingers waver minutely over the trigger. "What the hell?!"

I wait seven seconds to let him calm down. "It's time to get up for school, John." I keep my eyes to his as he replaces the gun to its resting place. "You slept through the alarm. Again."

John fails as he struggles to hide a shaky breath. "Don't do that again. Ever. One day I might accidentally pull the trigger."

I give him a quizzical look. "I am Machine, John Connor. Your bullets cannot harm me."

John shakes his head and runs a hand tight with tension down his face. My database confirms this is a gesture of frustration. It seems almost nine out of ten times John repeats these gestures, I am present. "Still, shooting a girl, whether human or not, isn't the best way to start the morning. I'm a big boy now. I can get up on my own."

"This is not apparent." I glance at the alarm clock to remind him he is thirty minutes late, then turn to leave. "Try again later."

Downstairs I grab my messenger bag. My homework was done last night; a five page essay on the portrayal of strong women in old English literature. I have A's in all my classes. Except drama. I have an A-. Ms. Altridge says my expressions are too sudden, too synthetic. She believes there is no soul behind my displays of emotion. She shakes her head when I tell her I am not programmed that way.

Ten minutes, twenty seconds, three milliseconds later, John comes down the stairs. "Where's Mom?" He goes to the kitchen and comes back with an apple. The crunching sound seems right beside my ear. I like it more than the birds.

"She left last night at twelve twenty-three. She will be back tonight." I lift my black messenger bag over my shoulder. "She says to have a good day."

John's face was blank. "What's she doing?"

"She says you're nosy too." I pause. "I believe she would smile now, but I won't."

John looks me over in his usual way. Bemusement, with a decipherable edge of frustration and unanswered questions. I always get something akin to a human's instinctual tug at times like these, like he has something to be said. He never does. Maybe his sense of keeping everything under lock-and-key is better even than mine. He would make an excellent Machine.

"It's time to go, John." I head to the front door, open it, hover. "I'll drive." I leave the door gaping like a man after he's been shot for the first time.

The drive to school is short and nearly silent. The small talk I've been practicing and recording at school fails me. Now is not the time. John is distracted; worried about Sarah. I am distracted; by time and space and the strange off-beat thump that has taken up within my internal structure. I plan to run a second check during passing period.


	3. Learn to Breathe

Sadly, I still don't own Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles or the characters. Fortunately, I still own me and a couple words.

Author's Note: Okay. Now the action can build up. Yay-ness!

Every day at school, it's a game of tag between John and myself. I am always it. To ensure his constant protection, I follow him around school. We have all the same classes and break periods. He has more friends. I have better grades. It evens out. The only 'issue'---his word, not mine---is that we are each on opposite ends of a spectrum. We are both extremes. Extremes don't mix well. His extreme is that he has the whole human male 'no-assistance-required' syndrome, I think you would call it. I believe it is a common brain deficiency among males. I am the pinnacle of the 'keep-stubborn-male-alive' category. It is sufficient to say John doesn't like my company at school. Which is why he has Riley.

I contemplate the human girl as I trail silently behind John and her. She laughs at the least humorous things John has to say. Her blood builds beneath her fragile human surface when he glances her way. She is a happy, bright, short-lived mechanism. Most of all, she has the capability to make John smile, one even the drama teacher would say reaches his soul. Even if I was able to like Riley, I wouldn't. John turns back slightly to mouth, '_Go away, Cam. John Connor promises he can survive one conversation with the scary girl.' _I do not understand his diction.

'_Scary?' _I mouth back. The archive I access takes me to the day I was equated to a 'scary robot' as I stripped the organic material from another Terminator. The title slid off me easily, but did not connect with my perception of John's feelings concerning Riley.

John rolls his eyes. I believe he is reenacting the primary functions of a Moody Teenager. I refocus on his face in time to register slight muscle repositioning that frame less obvious human emotions. It is the look John assumes when he realizes his complicated---though fatally primal---words and vague actions are 'lost' on me. It is the look of realizing metal and cold designs take up the space beneath my chest where a heart will never be.

I assent to his request for space, knowing without empathy something bleak and not good is brewing under his surface. I nod slightly to John, and retreat a few paces. The last thing I see before I enter the door at my right is a picture of human comfort. Riley's hand over John's. John not pulling away. I check her target status for the eleventh time today.

_**Target: Riley**_

_**Threat Assessment Level: None**_

_**Termination: Not Required**_

_**System override. Termination foreseeable. Adjustment denied. Threat level nonexistent. Termination not required. **_

I lean against hard tile as the thump in my chest breaks its initial pattern.

_**System check: Progressing**_

_**System analysis: Operational**_

_**Operating at 100%.**_

Whatever the anomaly is, it is harmless. For now. I retreat to the room-in-which-no-bathes-are-actually-taken and find the mirror to observe the Lie. She is, like my system, operational. I leave the room, acknowledging the gazes of much-too-mortal beings. As I walk the hall to drama, I observe the loud human adolescents I pass. They have something in them I can't comprehend. Their power source. The light reflected through them. It makes me too aware of how I am---though infinitely more elegant and sophisticated---not unlike a lifeless gun or any other petty human war toy.

I pass the classroom's threshold a second before the bell rings. Looking around, I find John already in his seat towards the back. I stop staring and sit in my place at the front so I do not look like a freak. John tells me freaks are things people don't strive to be. I analyze the correlation between this and my recent actions contradicting the core purpose of resembling humanity. I do not strive to be human. Does this mean all humans are doomed to be freaks?

Ms. Altridge takes a sip of concentrated caffeine---a beverage called coffee---and stands center stage. This routine behavior indicates the start of today's lesson.

"Today, all I want to work on is expression through words. We will work through three mediums; words from within, words pre-written, and words meant to be sung. You have three minutes to write two verses following the prompt on the board, then you will be called up front to share. This will be the word from within portion of today's exercises." She vaguely gestures at the room in general then sits down to take another sip of her coffee. The class takes this as an order to begin.

I do not know what to write. I do not possess the chemicals necessary to provide the emotions vital to having anything 'within'. I realize Ms. Altridge couldn't have guessed this, so I decide to attempt the written prompt. The prompt on the board reads: what makes you _you_?" I know enough about my internal structure to fill more than two verses. I begin. My pen scratches frantically across the page as words and appealing sentence structures fill my existence. I slow down enough to pass for a human writing speed, but I am bent on completing the assignment as efficiently and precisely as possible. Two minutes seems like a nonexistent void, over before it begins.

Ms. Altridge calls an end to the exercise and scans the room like a predator searching for the weakest link in a food chain. Her eyes settle on me.

"Cameron, I am especially interested to know what you've devised. Why don't you come up here and be our first storyteller---tell us the story of _you._"

I nod a fraction, knowing though she couldn't force me on any level to comply, following classroom procedures was a major part of the façade. I walk up to the center of the classroom, leaving my paper on my desk and meeting the eyes of several classmates. All of them present awkward mixtures of neutrality, impassiveness, and reluctant curiosity. I notice John's face is both the most guarded and open in the room.

"I am metal, I am gears, I am the future,

I am the strongest soldier in the world,

Because I can't feel pain or any other haywire mechanism,

That bleeds through the hearts of modern girls,

I am a single strand of hardware hugging DNA,

A steel brick in a wall filled with living parts,

I am made of nothing but perception,

A dying frame lacking a human heart."

Silence. Silence in the atmosphere and in the sunshine streaming through the curtains. I don't know what the class is feeling. Did I speak awkwardly? They all look like one-expression models; shock and pity, confusion and awe. I feel like I have accidentally striven to be a freak. In the few moments I've spoken, I feel as if I stumbled upon humanity.

"I am done now." I say needlessly, recapturing my place near the front. Ms. Altridge looks at me with something akin to approval. I think that is good. I absently turn to see John. He is unreadable. I have missed the opportunity to decipher his reaction. I turn back to the front and stay that way until everyone else is through reading their compositions.

The 'words from within' portion of the lesson takes up more time than expected. We end the day with it, and are promised a return to pre-written words the following class period. I leave the room as the bell rings, not waiting for John. I trust he's capable enough to show himself to the car like the big boy he said he was.


End file.
